of jasmine tea and fairytales
by songs
Summary: "Can you bring a curling iron to jail?" — ო klaroline.


**title: **of jasmine tea and fairytales

**paring: **klaus/caroline

**setting: **somewhere in season 2, before Klaus is introduced to the show.

**word count: **3,270

**disclaimer: **i own nothing!

**summary: **Their first meeting is one she will never remember. "Can you bring a curling iron to jail?" — klaus ო caroline.

* * *

Caroline sighs at the empty road, speeding up subconsciously.

Life—or, well, if she wants to be _technical—death_ is going like this:

Her mother hates her because she is a vampire. Bonnie hates her because she is a vampire. Matt hates her because she is a vampire. Tyler hates her because she is a vampire—which is pretty hypocritical, she might add, considering he's a freaking _werewolf_.

Oh, yeah. Even the effing _sun _hates her because she is a vampire.

It's getting to be a little much.

Then there's the Salvatore brothers and their vaguely compassionate indifference and Elena and her whole bleeding heart dealio (ew, did she just _think _the word dealio? Her dignity must be off somewhere along with her humanity), but other than that, Caroline can safely say that she's pretty much alone in this.

She feels a bit pathetic, especially since she's always prided herself in being a 'the cup is half full' kinda girl. Optimistic. A little naïve, but hey, _whatever. _It's not like it's a bad quality to have. The haters can suck it.

But Vampire Caroline is a little more world-weary. And, you know, _deep, _and analytical.

Mhm. _Totally. _

At this current point in time, she is about 110% sure that the cup is so empty that it's not even a cup anymore—because, like, the whole _point _of cups is to hold water and juice and vodka and blood because _hello vampire, _and _guess what—this_ cup will never even touch any remnants of a beverage ever again so, yeah, it's. Not. Even. A. Cup.

Caroline _breathes. _Even though she really doesn't have to.

Reflex.

She knows she needs to calm down if she's starting wax poetic on cup idioms.

(But calming down is gonna have to wait—_Someone Like You _by Adele starts playing on her car's radio, and she turns it up, belting out the lyrics to the song that currently acts as the description of her life. Kinda.)

"_I wish nothing but the besttttt—_" Okay, not really. Everyone is sort of pissing her off, so she's not exactly praying for their joys, but, _minor technicality. _No biggie. "_For you-ooh!_"

She just needs a little time away from Mystic Falls to cool off. She'll be back in _no _time.

And there's a good chance that no one is gonna notice, anyway.

(Caroline tries not to let the last thought sting.)

So, instead, she lets her mind wander off to more direct matters: for example, _where the heck she's headed off to. _It's dark out, and she really has _no clue _as to where she is. And, while, _duh, _she's a vampire and can handle herself and kick anyone's butt into next week, the comforting tidbit of information does not do much to lessen the Creepy Factor of driving alone. In the woods. Late at night. _Alone._

Um, _shudder._

Her head fills with comforting thoughts like, _oh, please Caroline, you're already dead anyway _and _ohmigod, everyone will feel _so _guilty at your funeral _and she's reaching for some comfort food à la _blood bag snagged from the Salvatore's grody basement_, when—literally, _out of nowhere—_a tall, slim-looking figure appears ahead on the road. She brakes instantly, swerving slightly off to the side, but even her super-duper-vampy-reflexes aren't enough, and she _actually runs straight into them._

If her heart still beat and all, it would have definitely just _stopped._

"_Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmyGOD_!" Caroline screeches, and she leaps—yes, _leaps—_out of her car, running over to the fallen figure. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, you just, like, came out of nowhere, um—are you okay? Wait, no, of course you're not, I hit you with my car..."

The star-white sky casts light over the Possibly Dead Person, and for a second, all she sees is a sharp jaw and sunset-lips and then the decidedly _open _and _blinking _sea-storm eyes of a _guy_—who, even in her blind panic—Caroline deems as Total Man Candy.

He groans, and Caroline kind of cries a little.

He's alive-ish.

She's not a murderer.

(Again, at least...)

She goes on, blabbering with a bit of relief. "Should I call 911? Er, nevermind—that's a stupid question of _course—_"

And then it hits her.

She just _ran this guy over._

"Oh...no...will I go to jail—ohmygod—_I'm going to end up in jail_!" In her peripheral vision, she sees the guy begin to stand—he's like, a head taller than her. Involuntarily, she licks her lips. _Tasty. _But then her mind reoccupies itself with thoughts of prison, and she continues speaking without a social-filter, as per usual. "Can you bring a curling iron to jail? Is that too much to ask for? I'm a hit-'n-runner...so, they probably won't let me, then...and...I-_I'm so sorry—_"

Even though _she's _not the one who got hit, she's pretty sure she blacks out or something, because, for like, a _minute _there is nothing but her obnoxiously-loud-rasping and then_—_

"Sweetheart," comes a husky, accented voice. She feels strong hands rest on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. "I'm perfectly fine. See? Not a scratch."

Well, no, she _can't really see much, _because, contrary to popular belief, night-vision isn't included in the whole Vampire Bundle Package. But Caroline blushes, because, from what she _can see, _she has just run over a Very Attractive British Man.

Great.

Just her luck. Caroline Forbes, with her _smooth _first impressions.

_Yeah, impress him into the ground, is more like it, _her mind supplies unhelpfully.

"I'm _so sorry_!" she says, again, because, really, what else do you say to someone you hit with your car? "Really. I...I—is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

Wow.

_Really, mouth? s_he thinks to herself._ Really?_

Because that didn't sound stupid _at all._

But, apparently, the poor guy is suffering from head trauma and possibly some form of brain damage, because he actually _laughs. _Like being run over by eternally-underaged-blonde vampire girls is just another amusing pastime of his, like it happens every day. "You're something else, aren't you, love?"

She balks, a bit taken aback, because, _um, _how does one manage to sound so beautiful and coherent and husky and _wonderful _after having a run in with a two-ton vehicle moving at, like, fifty miles an hour?

Also, he just called her love. _Swoon._

"Um—I—_well..._" _Somebody's articulate. _"I'm Caroline," she finally blurts, because she's pretty sure she's lost all hope for higher thought.

He laughs again, and her eyes narrow. _This isn't funny at all!_ "Alright, Miss Caroline." The way his voice cradles her name sends shivers down her spine. "Why don't you let me take you out to dinner?"

He says it like he wants anything _but _dinner.

Caroline stomps her foot, suddenly huffy. She's _not that kind of girl, _and most definitely does _not _appreciate the innuendo_._ Even if she did possibly cripple/severely injure him.

"Take me out to dinner?" Her glare is sharp enough to slice through _bones. _"Is that what they call it these days?"

He blinks at her, obviously puzzled by her reaction, and she feels something sink in her stomach. He _actually _meant to take her out to dinner. As in...just the eating part. Not the naughty bits.

Her cheeks flush.

_Note to self, _she recites. _Get mind out of gutter._

"Oh." And then, because she doesn't live by the phrase "open mouth, insert foot", like she_ should_, she says, "But... it's eleven at night. Dinner was, like, _hours _ago."

He chuckles, and Caroline is caught between feeling nervous and excited. This whole _situation _is just so unlike anything she's ever lived through—well, minus, _dying _and becoming a vampire and stuff—and she can't help but wait with anticipation for what he's going to say next, _do_ next; and yeah, maybe he could secretly be a serial killer but she's a friggin' _vampire _and that trumps _all._

Unless, like, he's a werewolf during the full moon. Or, maybe a werewolf and vampire _at the same time—_

As her internal monologue drones on and on, his voice—which, if she hasn't mentioned, is _extremely attractive_ what with the accent and all—cuts in, and he tells her, around his laughter: "You drive a hard bargain, darling. How about we go out for drinks then?" She raises an eyebrow, and he grins. "Nothing _too _hard, Caroline, I was thinking..._tea. _I know a place nearby that makes an exquisite jasmine."

Caroline almost snorts. Just who _was this guy_? "_Tea_?" At his deep nod, she giggles. "How stereotypical. A pretty British boy and his tea."

She's definitely having an off day, because she doesn't realize what she's just said, until his cherry-smirk is caught by the lull of the moonlight, and he teases, "Oh? Well, I'd hardly call myself 'pretty', but yes, I do enjoy a good cup of tea."

_Oh my god, _Caroline thinks, _I'm flirting with my victim._

But she can't stop. So, coyly, she asks, "Then what do you call yourself? What's your name?"

There's a pause, and it's so dark that she doesn't see the emotions shift in the sea-porcelain of his eyes.

And then, lightly, with quirked lips:

"Klaus."

She sort of melts, momentarily (_she knows his name sheknowshisname, yes!)_ before the shape of the word catches up with her and she chokes on a giggle.

"Klaus? _Seriously_?" She doesn't want to offend him, but come _on, _who the heck names their kid _Klaus_? "S-sorry, but that's—" She giggle-snorts, unattractively. (Oh well, the guy's name is _Klaus.) _"—_hilarious!_"

Caroline half wonders if she's injured his man-ego and if he's going to freak out at her; instead, his smirk remains in place. "What can I say? I'm quite the hilarious guy," he drawls. He looks at the ground for a moment, before gazing up at her, hopefulness etched into his expression. "So, how about that tea-date, love? What do you say?"

She regards him, _sizes him up_, so to say, even though she's already pretty certain of her answer. So what if he's been out walking on this ghost of a road when it was nearly-midnight? She probably looks just as sketchy, driving alone, with an enormous duffel-bag spanning her passenger seat and frizz in her hair and old tears planted in the backs of her eyes and then, she thinks, _screw it—_

Caroline beams at him. "I'll drive, if you pay."

And that's that.

* * *

The drive is short; when he said _nearby, _he actually meant _nearby, _and not, _oh, it's about forty miles away, so keep driving, keep driving, and, yeah, sorry, don't mind me, i'm just going to stab you, now—_

Jeez. Intense, much?

She's starting to think that _she's _the psycho.

In all actuality, Klaus, despite his somewhat obnoxious (cough, _sexy_) laugh, is The Perfect Gentleman. So much so that it deserves special intonations and capitals.

He opens the car-door for her (even though he's not the one driving, it's _still _adorable); he seems to grasp the fact that this is all just really strange and kind of off-kilter and surreal, because, er, their story is kind of going like this: Girl hits Boy with car. Boy asks Girl out on date. Girl accepts, and drives Boy to café/tea shop.

So he gives her space and settles for a weirdly comfortable silence, speaking every now and again to inform her where to turn or to tell her about one of his visits to the many shops and restaurants they pass by. Then he goes on to talk about how the one bakery on the left reminded him of his time in Paris, and suddenly, Caroline feels very small.

She still listens, entranced as he goes on to explain the beauty of brisk, Parisian nights, until he sort of stiffens, looking a little sheepish and embarrassed, like he's throwing too much of himself at her at once.

"My apologies," he murmurs, voice low. "I get a bit carried away, sometimes."

Caroline instantly shakes her head, fairy-curls bobbing. "No, no, I really liked what you were telling me!" She quiets, swallowing, working the words from her throat. "I actually have no idea where we are," she admits, sheepishly. "I've never even left my hometown, until today. Kind of a small-town-girl, you know?"

He turns to look at her, _really _look at her, and she feels her breath hitch.

It's almost like he can see her soul.

"I don't think so," he finally says, and she feels something inside of her shift: a light untouched, glowing warmly in her bones. "Caroline, you are so much more than that."

Caroline stills.

She couldn't have known him for more than an hour.

It's irrational, but—it's seemed like an eternity.

(_He makes her want an eternity.)_

And that's more than anyone else has ever done for her.

It's like—

"Here we are—_The White Teapot—_you can park over there."

—this (_he_) is what she's been waiting for.

* * *

_The White Teapot_ is surprisingly full, brimming with people—Caroline tries not to imagine the scarlet-rivers that pulse through them, and instead focuses on _Klaus _and _tea _and her _modern-day-fairytale-fieldtrip._

Klaus pulls out her chair for her and she can't quell the fluttering that stems from her core. "Thanks," she whispers, looking up at him from below the lines of her lashes.

He just smiles and slips into the seat across from her; it's then that she's made acutely aware of the fact that the table is _pretty small. _If she leans forward _just a little, _she'd knock foreheads with him and— she suddenly wishes that she needed to breathe, because she'd definitely be stealing his air and—

"What would you like to drink tonight, miss?" The voice is high and tinny and coming from her right.

Caroline blinks. Oh.

The waitress.

"Um." From the corner of her eye, she glances at the small, slip of a menu that rests beneath her elbows (bad manners, she scolds herself, and it takes all of her to refrain from screaming when she notices _Klaus's _elbows are nowhere _near _the table). "I..."

"She'll have the jasmine tea," Klaus saves her, smoothly. Politely, he adds, "I'll have the same. Thank you."

The waitress—tall and thin and redheaded with bottle-green eyes—flounces away with a blush darkening the apple-white of her skin.

Caroline tries not to roll her eyes; Klaus is just _too much_.

But she'd be lying if she said she didn't find it endearing.

Instead of saying _thanks _for the fiftieth time that night (Caroline Forbes _doesn't _do repetitive), she says, offhandedly, "Looks like someone has a crush."

She gestures towards the redhead with just her gaze, and Klaus just looks at her like she's been trying on Damon's crazy-eyes for size.

Then, of course, he _smirks. _"Why, Caroline, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were _jealous_."

_Ohmygod. _"Don't flatter yourself," she manages, but it doesn't sound too convincing.

She knows she's a bit obvious.

It's part of her charm.

Totally.

He looks like he is about to say something, and then their tea arrives and the flirt-of-a-waitress skips off with a bounce in her step and a wink in her lashes and Caroline tries not to gag.

There's _definitely _a difference between obvious and _floozy_.

But all thoughts of floozies are thrown to the wind when Klaus begins to speak.

"Caroline." He touches every angle of her name. Like it's precious. "May I ask you something?

She's a bit too charmed to say anything but, "Sure."

He isn't playful or teasing or anything but serious when he asks, slowly, "Just what are you doing here, love?"

_What_? She must have hit him harder than she thought.

She tilts her head, confused. "Um, well, this was your idea—"

"I meant," he cuts her off, eyes on hers. "What is a young, young girl—a _beautiful, bright_ girl, with her whole life ahead of her—doing out here, far from home, in the middle of the night? You are too young to start running, Caroline."

He sighs, and for a moment, Klaus, who cannot be more than twenty-five, seems so very, very old.

It's...jarring.

Caroline stares at him, seeing him for the first time, and then her eyes slip back down at the table, where her elbows are splayed gracelessly. The tea-cup is warm in her grasp and she feels the words slide past her lips like rain, "I'm not running," she starts, gaze low. "If no one is chasing me. If no one wants—" She chokes, and hates herself for it. "—to bring me back."

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "You can tell me."

And she does.

* * *

Klaus is a good listener.

She doesn't bring up the nitty-gritty details, aka the _Oh, yeah, I'm a vampire, by the way, _anecdote, so most of what she says as she spills her soul to this guy she's just met and run over with her car sounds sort of disjointed and vague, like wading through dream-water, but he doesn't mind one bit, and nods and growls and sighs and holds her hands in his calloused palms, like he can transfer the strength inside of him through the kiss of their skin.

It's hardly romantic. She's all snotty and the rivers of her eyes are rimmed red and teardrops are raining into her cooling tea and he's just sitting there _listening, _not making a move, not bringing up the fact that she's a _psycho _that nearly killed him earlier that night and it's just—

Intimate. It's intimate, like she's just learned this shade of the hand-touch, the whisper, the gaze. It's like she's found herself, in this strange, beautiful, enigma of a man and she wonders if she's going to wake up in her room in Mystic Falls, tangled in the warmth of her bedsheets, her eyes wet with dream-tears and heart shuddering for dream-boys.

By the time she's done speaking, her throat stings and she can't see through the sheen of the tears and she is still as glass as Klaus takes a napkin and dabs her eyes dry and then she melts into him and she throws the worried looking waitress (not a skank, Caroline decides, generously) an apologetic glance and nothing more as she and Klaus make their way out of the café.

"Klaus?" she asks, voice thin. He turns, and she smiles, weakly. "Thanks. For everything."

So, okay, _sometimes, _on _special occasions, _Caroline Forbes allows herself to be a little repetitive.

Klaus is staring down at her in that other-worldly, soul-searching way, when he says, "No, Caroline. Thank _you._"

Puzzled, she gives him a questioning look. "For what? All I did was messy-icky-cry all over you."

At this, his lips quirk and he dimples. "You had reminded me of what it was like..." He trails off, and isn't looking at her anymore; she can tell he is far, far away, because suddenly, he blinks and shifts, as if just realizing himself.

And then his hands gently grasp her shoulders and his eyes cloud and dilate and for those flimsy, mist-moments before it all disappears, _she knows._

"_You're a v—_"

"Caroline, young, _young_ Caroline," he says, and it sounds like he's speaking from behind glass. She goes slack, cornflower eyes on his. "I would like it if you did not run anymore. Do not become like me."

She nods, hollowly.

"And if tonight helped you," he starts, sounding more human than she's heard him all night. "as much as it did me, I would like you to remember it."

Another empty _yes. _A doll. She's a doll.

He is silent for a while before he finishes. "But please, Caroline, do forget me." She feels something ghost down the length her cheek, her mouth. "Perhaps we will meet again."

And then Caroline blinks and she's alone in a parking lot with nothing but her car-keys, a road-map home, and a warm, lightness in her soul, as if a lifetime of knots and sorrows have become undone.

She doesn't remember why she's there, or what happened, but she breathes a wispy (rooted), "Thank you," to the empty night.

As she speaks, she tastes jasmine, and something else—ephemeral and gossamer—on her lips.

* * *

**an: **please review? my second klaroline. i just love them. they. are. perfection! aha.


End file.
